Through Thick and Thin
by the.eye.does.not.SEE
Summary: An assortment of moments in the evolution of Oscar and Jane's relationship. [A happy birthday gift to authenticflirt!]
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N** : A very, very random assortment of J/O moments for my buddy authenticflirt's birthday! We'll start in pre-series, move through a bit of _True or False _, and onward into the_ I've Been Dreaming of a Future _canon. This thing's quite long, so I've done my best to chop it up into (hopefully) easy-to-digest chapters. To everyone reading, I hope you like this. And C—happy birthday, girl! :)_

* * *

It was amazing how the reality of her never quite managed to level with his imaginings. Even when he cooked up the most outlandish stories and the craziest scenarios, the real thing—the real _her_ —always went above and beyond anything he could dream up. Today proved to be no exception.

He had just started to get used to their routine: her signaling him that she wanted to meet (to which one of his bunkmates muttered, _Christ, Brenton, is she literally throwing rocks at your window?_ ), him slipping out of bed, meeting her at the prescribed place, and them going over whatever part of the Plan that was on the docket for that evening. Sometimes it meant he was giving her updates on the goings-on in the Marines; more recently, she'd been opening up about what had been happening in the Army. Things were moving forward quickly now that they knew what they were looking for, and they were doing well together in their respective spheres, and even better in their common middle ground. They were uncovering more every time they met up, and they were learning how to settle in for the long haul. It wouldn't be easy—not by a long shot—and their lives were still very much in danger at every turn, but Oscar was actually starting to believe that they might be able to pull this off.

That is, until she changed the rules once more, and everything was up in the air again.

He had been on his way to the cafeteria for lunch when a hand suddenly shot out of a nearby supply closet and dragged him inside. The door slammed shut immediately, and it was so dark in there that he couldn't see anything at first, let alone tell who had taken him. The first thing he felt was panic: they'd finally found him out; they knew about the late-night meetings; they knew about the information he'd amassed on the Marines. They were going to kill him. Well, probably torture him first. Then they were going to kill him.

And even though he knew it was pointless, he thought of running, or of fighting his way out, and he braced himself as if for battle. But before he could even make a move, his eyes adjusted and he saw her standing there in front of him, and his mind took a sharp left away from panic. Her face was mere inches from his; she was holding him up against the shelving unit, her hand still on his collar, and he'd be lying through his damn teeth if he said he hadn't had fantasies of this. How many times had he dreamed of her appearing out of nowhere onto the base, dragging him off to some dark corner, the both of them suddenly without clothes…

"Are you listening to me, Marine?" she demanded, slapping his cheek hard with her free hand as she clutched his collar tighter with the other. "Hey! Anyone in that thick head of yours?"

"Ow," he muttered, ducking from the next blow as he knocked her hand away. "Jesus, Army, don't hit. I'm here. What do you want, psycho?"

She stepped back, and glanced away to the door, as if expecting intruders. He had to ask her again before she confessed.

"We've… met a hiccup in the Plan."

"A hiccup?" he demanded. "What kind of hiccup?" When she started to turn away, he grabbed her shoulders hard, forcing her to look at him. That familiar fear was back, and rushing in quick. They'd be coming for him soon. He was a dead man. He always had been. _Why had he ever trusted her?_ "What happened? Who knows what we're—"

"I don't know," she whispered, and in the dark, he could see his own fear reflected, magnified, in her wide eyes. It froze him for a second. In all the months he'd known her, in all they'd been through, this was only the second time that he'd ever seen her truly scared. And it absolutely terrified him.

"I—I don't know what happened," she stammered. He could feel her starting to shake uncontrollably under his hands. "I just—I had some documents, hidden in my bunk for safekeeping before I moved them somewhere more secure, but now they're gone, and I don't know who took them. I don't know what they did with them, or who they gave them to, or what's going to happen. And I didn't—I didn't know what to do or where to go or, or— _Oh, God_ —"

She broke off then, and buried her face in her hands with a noise so strangled and hopeless it made a shiver run up his spine. For a moment, he thought she was going to start weeping. And maybe she was.

So he didn't think—he just reached out for her. He wrapped his arms around her back and she gave off a gasp—of surprise? Of relief?—as he crushed her thin body to his. For a solid minute, all she did was shake in his arms, hands at her sides, her whole body trapped within his. He held her tight, and hooked his chin over her shoulder, digging it in tight to hold her still. She was in uniform, he noticed. She'd never come to him in uniform before; she must've come straight from her base to his when she'd noticed the theft. According to regulation, her hair was done up in a low bun, but it was coming loose, like the rest of her, under the stress. The fallen strands brushed against the side of his face as he held her. The touch of her hair was so light and gentle he hardly even felt it. He closed his eyes.

"We'll figure this out," he whispered to her. "Okay? You and me, we're in this together. So we'll get out of this together. I promise."

"Or we'll die for it together."

Her words were muffled against his chest, but that didn't take the truth out of them. And he had no refutation to it. So he simply held her tighter.

After a moment, he agreed quietly, "Yes. Or we'll die for it together."

And somehow, for the first time ever, that future didn't seem so horrifying to him, not so long as she was by his side when it came to pass. He bent closer to her, and when he felt her hands come up to cup his back, he closed his eyes and gave in to the small comfort. For a while, they stood like that, holding each other, and neither said anything. There was nothing to be said—if this was the end, there were no more plans to make, no strategies to discuss, no exit routes to take. They'd be hunted and they'd be killed, and that was reality. But they had both known that from the start, hadn't they? She'd even introduced herself to him with a knife at his throat. It had been fitting, he thought, looking back now: like a harbinger of things to come. Meet in death, end in death.

He was so lost in accepting this, in telling himself that it was right and just and to be expected, that he didn't hear the footsteps outside the supply closet door until the key was put into the lock.

"Shit," he hissed, pulling away from her automatically. His eyes darted around in vain for a place to hide—if not himself, at least her. He could make up a reason for being here—some CO had sent him on an errand—but her? There was no reason for an Army private to be on a Marine base. Especially not in a supply closet. Especially not when she had no official authorization or documentation of her whereabouts or purpose on this closed base. She was trespassing and he would be accused of harboring a trespasser. "Fuck," he swore, looking around wildly. The room was about five by ten feet, and surrounded entirely in shelving, as per its purpose. There was nowhere to hide her. There was nothing to do. They'd be caught now, and then caught later once the documents were traced back—

He watched the door start to open, watched a sliver of golden light from the hallway cut through their darkness—and then he watched nothing else. Because before the door had even fully opened, her hands had taken ahold of his face, brought it down to her level, and she was kissing him.

Her kiss was like nothing he'd ever felt, but everything he'd imagined from her: fierce and determined and passionate. Relentless, just like the rest of her.

For a split-second, he was frozen beneath the touch of her lips, utterly disbelieving that this was actually happening. How many times had he dreamed of this, fantasized about it? How many times had she dragged him out of bed to discuss the Plan, and all that had been on his mind while they'd strategized had been this: how her mouth would feel against his, the way her hands would reach for him, the close press of their bodies as they met in the middle.

But he didn't have to imagine anymore; he didn't have to dream. She was right here, with him, _wanting him_ , and he didn't care why. He didn't care that his own painfully obvious attraction to her was being used as a distraction from their real purpose; he didn't care that she'd probably shove him off the second their intruder was gone. For now, she was here, kissing him, and he was going to take advantage of what little time they had and kiss her back.

One of his hands met her cheek, curling around the side of her jaw to pull her close, as the other went to her hair. He preferred it down—the way it usually was when she met him at night—and so he tugged insistently on her tightly wound bun until it came loose. Her hair tumbled down past her shoulders, and with it came the release of the smell of her shampoo; it was simple, standard-issue, but it hit him like some kind of rare perfume, and he wanted more. He stepped forward, wrapping one hand around her back to hold her to him while the other buried itself in her soft hair. If they had had more time, he would've stopped there, would've savored the feel of her hair, the taste of her lips, the strength of her hands as they held onto him—he would've taken a moment for everything. But they had no time; they had nothing anymore, and so he simply kept kissing her, kept stepping forward, until eventually her back hit the far shelves and there was nowhere else to go.

Then he took her face in both his hands and kissed her harder, pressing himself right up against her, trapping her between him and the shelf behind her, because he could feel her now: through the haze of fear and confusion turned to blind want, he could feel her hands running through his cropped hair, grabbing at the back of his neck, yanking on the collar of his jacket, and he found himself grinning as he kissed her, with even more enthusiasm now, because although he'd always suspected, always hoped, he'd never really known that she'd wanted him too. And who cared if they were about to be court-martialed or killed, at least he'd have this one perfect moment with her to look back on; at least he'd have the memory of her hands on him, her lips on his, her—

The sound of a man's throat clearing finally broke them apart, and made them both jump, panting as their mouths ripped away from each other's and their eyes went to the door.

A janitor was standing there by the door, mop in hand, bucket at his feet. In the dim light, Oscar could just barely make out the name stitched onto his chest, and the familiar features of his face. _Federman._ He felt the color rise in his cheeks, lighting a fire from his neck up to the tops of his ears as the recognition flooded through him. Of all the people who could've been at that door to witness this diversion… Oscar would've rather it had been the colonel in charge of this base than the part-time janitor that had connected the two of them at the beginning of all this. He would have rather it had been the president of the United States. He would have rather it had been his parents. Anyone else. _Anyone_.

"Call me crazy, but I don't think the supplies you two seem to need will be found in here."

After a moment of complete silence, broken only by their labored breathing, they both started spouting explanations simultaneously:

"No, you don't understand, we thought you were a CO, we just wanted to avoid suspicion—"

"It was just a cover, you know, to hide why she was really here, and—"

"Sure, whatever lie you kids want to stick to," Federman interrupted, laughing as he turned to the door. "I'll give you both a chance to draw up a solid story—and clean up a little, too. Here I thought we were out to save the world, but turns out you two just want to get laid…"

Before either of them could protest further, he'd stepped back outside, and yanked the door shut behind him.

Oscar was the one to bury his face in his hands this time, partially out of defeat, but mostly out of embarrassment. He didn't care if it was dark; she could always sense the red in his cheeks, and was drawn to it with taunts like a moth to a flame—except she was never the one that got burned. If he had to physically hide his face to keep her snark at bay, he would.

"Well."

He lifted his head only when he heard the flat affect of her voice. In the dark, he could see her tying her hair back up. Despite everything, he was sad to see it go. He liked it long and down around her shoulders. He liked the way it framed her pale face; it softened the fierce determination in her eyes, gentled the sharp angles of her cheeks and chin and nose. And he had very much liked how soft it had felt between his fingers when he'd been holding her. _Kissing_ her.

Had they really just kissed?

"I should go," she said, finishing up with her hair and heading to the door. "All I came to say was I lost those documents; I fucked up. I'm sorry. I'll try and figure it out, and I'll be back once I find out something about who took them and why. But if I'm not back…"

She trailed off, and he nodded at her silence, following in her wake to the exit. He knew what she wasn't saying: _If I'm not back, presume I'm dead, and that you'll be next._ For a second, she hesitated beside the door with her hand on the knob, and looked up at him, and he actually thought she might kiss him for real before she left. If this was potentially the last time they'd ever see each other, maybe they'd even do more than kiss…

But then she grinned that cutting grin of hers, and he knew he was finished; he knew she'd seen the thought on his face. She pulled open the door.

"Don't flatter yourself, Marine," she whispered. And then she stepped out, pulled the door shut behind her, and was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

He'd be lying if he said he wasn't disappointed she hadn't contacted him at all in the past two months. After their scare in March, she had only met with him once more, a week and a half later, to assure him that everything was fine. The stolen documents—she'd found the culprit. And she'd recruited her, an officer, as it turned out, to their cause. So their partnership was now a trio, and while he knew he should feel grateful that there were others that shared their fears and their commitment to righting wrongs—especially others in real positions of power—he was privately less than enthused. He missed it being just the two of them; he missed the way she would appear out of nowhere and turn his life upside down. He missed being the only one she had to share her fears and hopes and plans for the future with.

And if he was being honest, what he missed most was that kiss.

He should forget it, he knew. Maybe he should work on forgetting her, too. He still didn't even know her name; she was little better than a ghost when she was gone. A mirage. It would do him good to let her fade away. But even though it had been over eight weeks since he'd last seen her, he still couldn't stop thinking about her. Every morning when he woke up, he thought that this was the day she'd finally return. And every time he lay down after lights out, he thought this was the night she'd finally come for him. But every successive morning and night that had passed by only proved him wrong, again and again. He couldn't say he gave up on her—he would always hold out hope, always—but he had lowered his expectations drastically.

It was a good a time as any to do so. Because he'd been waiting on contact from her these past two months, he'd stayed at the base every single day, just in case she showed up at an off time. In doing so, he'd racked up some extra leave days. It was the first week of June, the official start of summer for the rest of the world, and he figured why not take a little vacation? Just a week off. Virginia Beach was only a few hours away; he could spend some time wandering around there with the rest of the people his age. Or maybe he could ride up to Dulles and catch a flight home to Chicago. He hadn't seen his parents in a while.

He was still juggling the decisions, and was halfway through the parking lot, when he heard a voice call out to him.

"Need a ride somewhere, Marine?"

His head snapped to the side when he heard the voice, _her_ voice, and then he stopped dead when he saw what she was sitting on: a coal black, shined-to-perfection Harley-Davidson motorcycle. Well, she wasn't exactly sitting on it. She was _lounging_ on it. Reflexively, he looked over his shoulder to see who was watching. They didn't get to see sights like this often at the base.

She was smiling when he turned back to her, as if she could sense his worry. She cupped her hands around one ankle and hugged it to her, letting the other rest on the headlight as she leaned back against the backpack propped up behind her.

"Easy, Marine. Nobody's spotted me. If they had, I would've known."

He had to concur. She was dressed head to foot in tight, form-fitting black jeans and a black tank top. Even her leather jacket hugged the curves of her waist. No one at the base would've so much as glanced at her without making a scene that drew every male within a two-mile radius.

"Is this your usual outfit?" he asked, his eyes lingering on the dark black jacket and even darker jeans. "It's over eighty degrees out. You'll suck up all the heat in that, you know."

"Price I'm willing to pay." She shrugged, "Hey, what can I say? I look good in black."

He didn't waste breath agreeing—it was obvious.

"How'd you know I was getting off today?" he asked, taking a few steps towards her, curious now. He'd only just walked out the gates.

Her smile widened, and she tipped her head back, closing her eyes as she faced the sun fully. "Oh, I might've hacked into the system a few months back."

"You've been keeping tabs on me." The words were meant to be an accusation, but really they came out with a note of wonder. He didn't know what was more unbelievable—that she'd successfully bypassed the base's firewalls and gained access to the security system, or that she'd done so in order to keep an eye on him. Both thoughts made him smile. He put his hand to his heart. "Army, I can't believe you'd care enough to monitor my movements," he teased. "I'm flattered."

"Oh, please, it's nothing," she replied easily, sitting up and straddling the bike. "Just looking after my partner in crime." As he watched her move out of her position of repose, and busy herself with putting on one of the helmets hanging off the handlebars, he realized that this was her way of being embarrassed: brushing things off at once, avoiding his eye, and immediately pushing forward onto the next thing by acting like nothing was out of the ordinary in the first place.

He felt his smile grow. He liked learning her tics. And more than that, he liked knowing it was possible to embarrass her. Even G.I. Jane wasn't immune to human emotions, good to know.

"So that's how you know where to find me, no matter when you visit," he realized. "You track my ID through the doors. You watch me through the security cameras."

"Ah, and all is illuminated." She held out an extra helmet. "Well? You need a ride or not?"

"Where are we going?"

She shrugged. "Where do you want to go?"

He looked down at the helmet, thinking. His options from before swam in his mind, but they were not places he wanted to go with her. Really, they weren't places he'd wanted to go in the first place. He stood and thought a minute, drumming his fingers over the helmet, but still, he couldn't think of anywhere. He didn't want to go to just one place with her; he wanted to go everywhere with her. He wanted to get as far away from here as possible as he could in six and a half days.

"What if I don't have a particular place in mind?" he asked. "What if I just want us to start driving and never stop? Any objections?"

"None at all." She smiled, and then scooted forward so he could fit on behind her. "West it is, then." She tipped her head at the helmet in his hands. "Hop on; let's go."


	3. Chapter 3

Four years, five months, and twenty-three days.

 _Four years, five months, and twenty-three days._ He repeated the count in his head, like a mantra, trying to convince himself—not of its veracity, but of its worth. Surely it wasn't too late. Hopefully it wasn't too early. He knew plenty of people got engaged in much less time, but then again, they weren't plenty of people. They were two very particular people. _She_ was a very particular person.

And he very much wanted her to say yes when he asked.

It's why he'd hesitated so long. First he'd wasted time telling himself it was too early (that's what he'd been doing for the last five months and twenty-three days; he'd talked himself out of proposing on their anniversary). Then he'd wasted time trying to find a ring (pointless, he'd only ever had one in mind). Then he'd dallied over the speech (he'd wanted to tell her everything, wanted to make her understand what she meant to him, what he would do for her, how he would always love her and care for her and never be unfaithful, but he knew she didn't want or need to hear those things— _Oh, be quiet, O,_ she'd tell him, rolling her eyes). He had spent so much time trying to make it perfect that eventually, he simply gave up.

In the end, he just asked. They were in the middle of dinner, eating quietly, and he took one look at her and decided suddenly that enough was enough. Either she'd say yes or she wouldn't; more time would not change her answer. A bigger ring would not matter. A practiced speech would not sway her.

She stopped eating when he took the ring out of his pocket and passed it to her over the table. Her eyes went round, and her mouth even fell open a little bit, as she watched him leave his chair and kneel by her side. She tried to say something—he watched her mouth open and close, his own pressed tightly shut—but nothing ever came out. He tried for a smile, tried to be confident. Her hand was shaking a little bit when he took it in his.

"Hey," he whispered, tilting his head back to look up at her.

She stared at him, eyes wide for a moment, before bursting out with a quick laugh at the simple absurdity of it. "Hi," she whispered back, a smile breaking open the edges of her face.

Her hand had its feeling back now, and it was clutching his hard. He squeezed it back, brought it to his lips. He pressed a firm kiss to her knuckles, and then closed his eyes, bowing his head to her hand for a moment. He listened to her whisper his name, and tried to judge what sort of pleading he heard there. Did she or did she not want him to ask?

Only one way to find out.

He opened his eyes, lifted his head, sought her gaze. He couldn't stop himself from smiling. "So," he whispered, bringing his other hand up to cradle hers in both of his. He kissed her fingers once more. "What's it gonna be?"

She was grinning and laughing and then she was falling to the floor, too, and their knees were bumping against each other as they hugged. He wrapped his arms tight around her back—too tight, he knew, but he couldn't let go—and whispered in her ear. That he was happy. That he loved her. That he always would. She repeated the words back to him, hugging him as tightly as she could, and he couldn't tell anymore, if it was his own tears he felt dripping down between them or hers.

"Maybe I should actually try on the ring," she said finally, once they'd pulled apart and cleared their faces a bit. He smiled, not even having even noticed they'd skipped that part. She reached up onto the table for the ring, and pulled it down to inspect it. He felt the nervousness coming back as he watched her shrewd eyes examine it. If there was a fault to be found there, she would be the one to find it.

"If you don't like it," he began quickly, "I can find you something else. I know it's kind of old-fashioned; it was my mother's. So it might not exactly be your style. We can get something else, whatever you want. But I thought maybe—"

"I don't need something else," she interrupted softly. "It's perfect, Oscar."

He broke off, swallowing his explanation as he watched her trace her fingers over the curve of the ring. Her fingertips swirled in circles around the diamonds. She put it on and when he saw her smile at how well it fit, he felt like he might pass out from relief. He would close his eyes, would take a breath, would tell himself to calm down, but all that would take away from the time he could be spending watching her wear that ring. And he didn't want to take away from a single second of that time. He never wanted to see her without it on.

"You said it was your mother's?"

He nodded. "Yeah. Well—my grandmother's, too, actually. Hers first. But most recently it was my mother's." He paused, and swallowed hard against the impossible turned possible that was surrounding them. He still couldn't believe she'd said yes—to him, to this. To a sworn future together, no matter what.

"And now… It's mine?"

The uncertainty in her voice made him smile; it even made him laugh a little.

"Of course it's yours," he assured her at once. "If you want it, it's yours. Everything's yours."

"Everything?" She finally looked up from the ring, met his eyes with a cheeky smile and an arched eyebrow. " _Every_ thing?"

"Everything I have," he answered honestly. "It's all yours. Ours." He meant the promise, but saying it aloud suddenly reminded him of how little he had to give her, apart from that ring. And even that hadn't exactly been his to give. "That isn't to say there's much," he warned her a moment later. "I mean, you served like me, you know what kind of a salary we made. And as far as a house or any kind of significant savings are concerned, well, I don't have one, and most of my savings have gone into the mission, so…"

"Oh, _now_ you tell me," she teased. "There's no house? No millions of dollars in various investment accounts? Well, I'm done. I'm out. Take the ring back."

She held out her left hand into the air towards him, playing, but he took it in his and bent to press a kiss to the ring. His touch was very tender, and she felt the joking smile fall off her face as she watched him.

"I love you," he whispered, pressing another kiss to her knuckles. "I love you, and that's what I can give you."

"Well, good." She met his eyes as he straightened up. "Because that's all I'm asking for." She leaned forward, then lowered her voice to a stage whisper. "And between you and me," she added, "it's just about all I've got to give, too. So don't get your hopes up that there's anything special hidden up my sleeves for you."

"Oh, you must have _something_ special for me." He grinned, and pulled her close for a kiss. She smiled, and wrapped her right arm around the back of his neck while her left cupped the side of his face. He could feel the cool metal of the engagement ring against the skin of his cheek as she held him, and he kissed her more deeply, pulling her into his lap as he sat back on the floor.

"O."

She pushed him back a moment, her hands bracing against his chest so she could speak, and look him in the eye.

"Yeah?"

"You should know right now that I won't be wearing a white dress. And you'll have to kill me before a veil goes on my head." Her green eyes watched his sternly for a moment. "Are we still good?"

He grinned. "Still good. Just so long as I don't have to wear a tux, deal?"

She rolled her eyes, hooking her arms lazily behind his neck. "Please. As if I'd even assume you'd dress up for me. I already knew that was off the table going into this." She frowned at him. "I doubt I could get you into a tux even if I begged."

"Hey, maybe it's not off the table." He smiled, cupping her hips and brushing his hands back until they linked together over her lower back. "What kind of begging did you have in mind?"

She laughed softly, throwing her head back as she scooted closer. She ran her hands through his hair; it was so long now, since he'd left the Corps three years ago, and she still hadn't gotten used to it. She was more than a little addicted to touching it, and feeling the difference in length. The difference in time.

"Hm, I don't know," she mused. "What kind of begging do _you_ have in mind?"

He smiled, and tightened his arms around her back in a fierce hug, binding them together. "We'll talk about it in a minute," he murmured, leaning forward to kiss her once more.


	4. Chapter 4

"You wanna know something, O?"

He opened his eyes at the sound of her voice, returning himself to the present, to their bed, to their room. He hadn't been sleeping, but he had been lost so far deep in memories that it had been like sleeping. It had almost been like living someone else's life.

He looked at her lying next to him, the night before all those memories they shared were to be erased from her mind, and he still couldn't believe it. Come tomorrow, she wouldn't recognize his face. Come tomorrow, he would be the sole keeper of the memory of their life together. The thought made his eyes burn.

He cleared his throat, pushing the fear and sorrow back as he remembered her question. "Sure," he said with a forced smile, making himself meet her eye. "Sure, I wanna know something."

Her expression softened at the strain in his, and she shifted closer. She reached out a hand for his, and brought it to her lips. He closed his eyes as she pressed kisses to the knuckles on the back of his hand. He remembered doing the same to her, over a year ago now, when he'd asked her to marry him. They had never quite gotten around to making things official. Not that it would matter come tomorrow, if they had.

He lay still as she reached a hand out, and smoothed the tense lines of his face. She drew her fingertips along the curves and lines of his bones, tracing the makeup of his face as if trying to memorize it. He shut his eyes tighter. Perhaps that was what she was trying to do. He wished it wasn't done in vain.

"I was scared before, about losing my memory and everything I'd ever known… But you know what? I don't think I mind forgetting everything so much anymore. I'm not as scared as I used to be."

He swallowed—tried to swallow—but something rough and oversized got stuck in his throat. What was she saying? That she didn't care that she was leaving her entire life behind? _Their_ entire life?

"You…" He had to clear his throat again to speak. "You don't?"

He kept his voice to a whisper, so she wouldn't hear it break.

She smiled a little as she watched him go entirely still before her as he waited for her explanation. "I don't," she whispered, moving closer to him. She brushed her nose against his, tip to top, and then kissed the spot between his eyebrows. "And do you know why?"

She waited for an answer, and he shook his head. She pulled back so they could look one another in the eye.

"I don't mind," she whispered, "because I am certain I won't really lose anything. You'll remind me of everything I need to know that I've forgotten. You'll be there, ready to tell me everything if I ask. Every last detail."

He smiled in relief, and his rigid posture eased considerably at her rosy future. " _Everything_?" He allowed himself to tease her a little. It might not be what he felt, but it was easier than crying. "You sure you want to know _everything_?"

"Of course. Every last detail," she repeated. She ducked her head to press another kiss to his hand. "I especially want you to retell that story where I saved your ass."

"Which time?"

She grinned. " _Exactly_."

He rolled his eyes, pretending to move away, but she reached out immediately to hold him close, and even he couldn't pretend not to want to be around her tonight, not even for a joke.

"I'm gonna tell the new you all the bad shit first," he threatened. "I'm gonna tell you all about every little embarrassment you've ever had—"

"Oh, while touting your own accomplishments, I'm sure."

"Hey, if I want to paint myself as the perfect guy, that's my prerogative, isn't it? Gotta win you back somehow. Might as well fill your head with as many heroic renderings of myself as I can think up."

She laughed, shaking her head.

"But I won't," he whispered, growing serious now as he reached a hand out to stroke her hair, from crown to shoulder. It was long still, nearly down to the middle of her back. Tomorrow, after the procedure, but before the tattooing, they'd chop it all off. He'd be sad to see it go. He loved her hair long; it had been like that ever since they'd met. She'd look alien with cropped hair, nothing like herself—but of course, that was the point.

"You know I won't; I won't tell you anything but the truth," he promised. "No matter how that paints me, no matter what it makes you feel or not feel for me…" He bent his forehead to hers. "If you come back to me again, I will not rush this second chance, I swear to you. I will not lie. I will tell you anything you want to know, and everything you deserve to know."

"I know you will," she whispered softly. She brushed a hand through his hair, tucking it gently behind an ear.

"I swear," he whispered again, his voice low, passionate, as if she had demanded to hear a profession of faith. "I swear I will."

She bent forward and kissed him once, lightly, so he knew she believed him. He had nothing to prove, not with her. Not yet, at least.

She pulled back slowly, thinking. "I appreciate that you want me to know all there is to know about the old me, but… There are some things that it's okay if you leave out, all right? There are some things…" She swallowed, looking away. He knew what she was going to say, and he tried to say it himself, tried to save her the pain, but his throat was just as raw as hers, his lips incapable of forming the words. It was a few seconds before she could.

"I don't need to know about the baby," she whispered, and he closed his eyes at the hoarse scrape in her voice. "The new me… O, you don't have to put yourself through that again. I know I'll have a million questions once you see me again, and that…" She leaned forward, holding his face in her hands and pressing a firm kiss to his forehead. "You can hide that if you want. It's okay. You don't have to go through that again. And anything else that is too painful for you to talk about—it's all right; you don't have to talk about it. I know you want to do right by me; I know you want me to know everything. But there are some things that we can let go of."

"And if I don't want to?" he whispered. "What if I don't want to let go?"

She closed her eyes. "O, please. Don't hurt yourself like this. I'm begging you. We can both start a new life here, why won't you just—"

"I don't _want_ to start a new life."

"Well, too goddamn bad!" she snapped, eyes flashing open. "You have to; you don't get a choice! _I_ don't get a choice! We've gotten this far; we've pledged ourselves; we don't get to back out just because we don't want to do it anymore. We have to see it through to the end; we can't leave, you know Shepherd. This deal is iron-clad. We can't just run away and pretend like we'll get a happily-ever-after—" She broke off, squeezing her eyes shut to beat back the tears, both the furious ones and the hopeless ones, that were threatening to spill out. She would not make him watch her cry again. Not ever.

She drew in a breath, slow and calming. Nor would she argue with him again. Not now, not on their last night on earth. She would not leave him with angry memories to look back on.

"Look," he whispered, breaking the silence, "all I'm doing is asking housekeeping questions for the future. We will never get another chance to have this conversation," he reminded her. "So right now, all I want to know is if there's anything you don't want me to tell you— _not_ anything that you're scared will be hard for me to tell you. I don't care about that; I'll find a way because you deserve to know." He paused, and spent a long moment staring into her eyes, willing the truth to the surface. "Just tell me," he whispered finally. "If there's something you do not want your future self to know about the past, tell me now and I'll stay quiet forever. Otherwise, I'll tell you the truth when you ask."

There was silence for a long while. He let her have it without interruption.

"My childhood," she whispered finally. Her eyes rested on a nonspecific spot on the sheets between them, and he did not ask her to look up. He knew letting herself unfocus like this helped her to keep talking. "Please don't ever tell the new me about that. Make up whatever you want to cover it—I don't care—just don't give me the truth. That is not something we ever need to talk about again, especially if I won't have the memories to look back on."

"Is that it?"

She looked up at him a moment, her worried eyes darting around his face. He could see her deliberating, fighting against herself and him and the future and the past. Finally, she nodded. "That's it."

"Well, okay then."

He relaxed back against the mattress again, and she started to do the same. She moved towards him without thought, and he turned to her with surprise and familiarity as she made a place for herself in his arms. For a few minutes they were quiet, holding one another. She rested her head against his shoulder and stared down at his chest, watching his heart beat beneath his skin.

"Tell me whatever you want about my life, our life, whenever you want," she whispered. "But the baby…" She moved one of her hands so it rested atop his heart. She felt it rise to her touch, contracting and deflating with each second that passed. "You can tell me, but please just wait on that, okay?" She turned her head and leaned back to meet his eye. "Please wait until we're serious—I mean, _really_ serious. Please don't…" Her chin started to shake, and she clenched a hand around it so he wouldn't see. Through the barrier, she whispered the rest of the muffled words, "Please don't tell me until we're back to where we are now. I couldn't— _can't_ —bear the idea of you telling me something like that and then me turning around and leaving again, as if it means nothing simply because I can't remember it. If you ever tell me about our baby, it has to be when you know I'll stay for good. It has to be when you're certain I'll know how to comfort you. Or at least when you know I'll try my best."

He nodded. "I'll pick my moment carefully."

She smiled a little, and dropped her hand so he could see. "You're always so careful," she whispered. She returned her hand to his chest, his heart. "Will you be careful with me, once I'm gone?"

The question was serious, but he couldn't resist teasing her: "Oh, don't worry, dear. I'll treat you like the finest china."

She smiled, laughing a little as he'd hoped she would, before frowning and returning to business. "You know that's not necessary," she muttered. "Nor was it what I was actually referring to."

He nodded, sobering along with her. "I know," he whispered.

"I might not come back to you. You need to keep that in mind."

"I know," he said.

"I might feel nothing at all when I see you again. You can't get your hopes up, O. You need to look out for yourself. Take care of yourself."

"I know."

"I might already—"

He brushed his fingers over her mouth. "Hey. _I know_. We've talked about this, remember. I may be a little slow sometimes, but I don't need a refresher course in this part of the mission."

"I just want you to be prepared," she replied. "I want you to realize that everything between us…" She shook her head. "It will all be so new to me. So unknown. It might feel familiar and it might not. I might think you're lying about everything, no matter how many truths you tell me. I can't promise…" Her chin started to shake again, and her eyes started to burn and flood, but she had no way to stop it this time. "I love you now," she whispered. "I love you so much. With everything I am, I love you. But—I cannot promise you that I'll love you again after this. I can't promise anything after this."

"I know." He lifted a hand to cup the back of her neck, to massage the tightness he could feel there. He stared at her a while, watching the tears fall and dry and fall again. "I knew going into this that it'd take everything of you, and everything from us."

"And yet you still think we'll get everything back." She smiled, perhaps hysterically, and wiped underneath her eyes. "Jesus. You're the worst hopeless romantic I've ever met."

"Well, I'm the _best_ , technically. _You're_ the worst."

She laughed, and rested her head against him once more. She gave off a murmur of approval when he hugged her tight with one arm, and drew the covers back over them with the other.

"I will miss this," she whispered, closing her eyes as she settled against him.

She felt him kiss the top of her head. "Me too."

"But Oscar?"

"Yeah?"

"I can't wait to meet you again."


	5. Chapter 5

It had become their habit, since reconnecting in her new life, to meet up at night and go for walks. There was something so otherworldly about the city at night—and about the night itself—that it offered them some cloak of fantasy as they tried for a new reality. It swallowed up their mistakes into the darkness, and by dawn, allowed them to hope they'd do better with one another tomorrow.

They had been dating— _dating_? Jane wasn't even sure if that was the right word—for over three months now. If it was the right word, it still didn't change their relationship much, except that they now went out to dinner every weekend or so instead of languishing in that basement; she had a few new dresses in her closet; and sometimes instead of spending nights talking on her couch, they just kissed.

But it did not progress much further than that. Nice clothes, nights out, a few kisses here and there. It had been nearly four months. They saw each other almost every day. She felt like something was supposed to change at this point. Something was supposed to happen.

When she brought the situation up, as vaguely as possible, over drinks with the girls, Patterson had smiled encouragingly and said, _Give it time, it hasn't been that long_. Tasha had made a face at that passive advice, and been direct as usual: _Don't listen to her. You want sex, Jane, you go get sex_. Jane hadn't had the heart to mention to Tasha that that wasn't exactly her style, let alone an option with the man in question. Luckily, Patterson saved her, and got the conversation moving in a different direction—towards sports—which Jane knew nothing about, but at least occupied Tasha for a good half hour-long rant. _You know it'll happen when it happens,_ Patterson had consoled her later, when Tasha had taken a rare break in complaining about the Jets to go to the bathroom. _Don't waste time worrying_.

Jane had appreciated her advice, and for the most part, held faith in it. After all, if she applied the same rule— _It'll happen when it happens_ —to every other interaction she'd had with Oscar, they all fell into line. It had taken months for them to even go out to dinner, and even that had at first been a disaster. The kiss on the sidewalk had been a nice coda, but the final goodbye had been somewhat disappointing.

 _It'll happen when it happens_.

She reminded herself of this as they continued on yet another midnight walk. It was a Thursday, and even though she knew she had work the next morning, she didn't much mind spending a couple hours after midnight wandering around the city with him. In fact, she looked forward to these walks now. A lot of times she took naps in preparation. She wanted to be awake with him; she wanted to fully remember every new memory he gave her.

They were walking through the East Village, heading north, when they happened upon a sight that Jane, in all her time in the city, had not yet seen. It was one-twenty-two AM, and there was a man in his pajamas, pacing in front of the stoop of his apartment, rocking a wailing baby. Jane couldn't help but stare—it wasn't often she interacted with children, and they fascinated her; she felt an odd kinship of ignorance with them. The man fascinated her, too. She wondered why he had come down here to calm the baby. Perhaps his wife was upstairs, exhausted, and needed the sleep? Maybe he had other children he didn't want to wake? Or maybe he, too, liked the way the city looked at night, and if he had to be up, he would be up, staring at it.

She felt Oscar's hand tighten around hers as they passed by the man. Jane glanced over at him, just in time to see him exchange a short nod with the father, who returned the gesture solemnly, if tiredly. Jane watched them interact silently with a smile pulling at the edges of her lips. She had noticed Kurt and Reade doing something similar, either to each other or with other men, and she always wondered what passed between men at these wordless exchanges; what did they say to one another with nothing more than the dip of a chin and steady, male eye contact?

She laced her fingers more fully through Oscar's as they passed by, and snatched one glance back behind them. The father was cooing to his child now; she could hear the quiet strains of a song she didn't know coming from his mouth. It wasn't until she faced forward again, and then glanced over at Oscar, that she realized she hadn't been the only one looking back.

She watched the look in his eyes, and though there was too much there—she did not know him well enough yet and could not decipher it—she was suddenly reminded of something he had told her, weeks ago, during one of their dinners out. _I still want kids._ He had said the words without hesitation, without shame, when she had asked. He had looked right at her and declared, _I still want kids_. Though he hadn't elaborated, there had been no doubt to the question of whom he wanted to have those kids with.

"Can I ask you something very personal?"

He glanced up at her question, his eyes tearing from the new family and back to her as concern manifested itself in the crease between his eyebrows. They routinely spoke about personal things, but she didn't usually preface herself like this. "Sure," he said slowly. Then, a second later, he put up a smile and added in his normal tone, "Ask me whatever you like."

She nodded, knowing he was being honest. He was very open with her. She could still hear the crying of that baby behind them. It was getting quieter now, either because they were getting too far away, or the father was finally succeeding in calming his baby. But the soft cries were still with them when she finally managed to speak.

"Is the reason we haven't had sex yet because you're scared I might get pregnant?"

He stopped walking so abruptly it was almost like he'd run into an invisible wall. She bit back the immediate urge to apologize, and waited by his side. If she apologized, she'd be brushing this off. And she needed to know.

"Am I…?" For a second, he struggled with words. She watched and waited, and kept her hand on his. Finally, he closed his eyes and drew in a breath. He always did that before unveiling some important truth, and she braced herself for it. "In all honesty, yes," he answered softly. "I do think about the possibility of you getting pregnant if we were to…" He trailed off then, not finishing his thought, and seemed to disappear very far away. When he came back, he seemed to have caught another train of thought. "But it isn't just that." After a second, his eyes opened, found hers. He surprised her by smiling. "Really, though, Jane, what I'm most worried about is that once we start having sex again, we won't be able to stop." She started laughing, rolling her eyes, muttering at him to stop being an idiot, but he continued, "Hey, I'm serious! It's been a long time, all right, and it's not something that you get sick of after doing once. Think about it," he grinned, as she started walking again and pulled him along, "if we start, we might never stop. That means you might never go back to work. You'd just stay in bed with me, all day, every day."

"You seem to have a _lot_ of faith in your own sexual ability."

"Ha!" He laughed at the skepticism in her tone, and caught her eye. "No, you know what it is? I have a lot of faith in _yours_."

She scoffed. "Oh, great, thanks a lot. No pressure then."

"No." She expected to hear him laugh back, but he was quiet. When she glanced over at him, his eyes were kind and his voice soft. "No pressure at all. I promise you that, Jane."

She could hear Patterson's encouragement echoing in his voice— _It'll happen when it happens_ —and she smiled and squeezed his hand. Clearly he subscribed to the same outlook. For some reason, that reassured her beyond meaningful words.

"Thank you," she whispered. It was too little, but it was all she could think of to say. At the last second, she rose on her toes, and pressed an impulsive kiss to his cheek, hoping that might mean something more.

He blinked in surprise at the touch, a half-smile flickering at one edge of his mouth. "You're welcome," he murmured as she pulled back. As they started walking again, she took the liberty of leaning a bit more into him than usual. He reciprocated by kissing her outside her door for much longer than he ever had before. He actually looked sad to go when he left this time without coming inside, and she couldn't help but smile. It wasn't a big step, but at least it was one in the right direction.


	6. Chapter 6

"Is it weird that I'm nervous? Because I'm really nervous."

Jane stood in the kitchen, repeatedly leaning over the sink to look out the windows positioned above it, the only ones in their apartment that gave a good view of the entrance to their building. Her hands were wrapped around each other, and she'd been obsessively fiddling with her rings for the last quarter of an hour as if _she_ were about to go on a date, and not her eldest son. Oscar watched her from the doorway, smiling.

"I mean, Ant's never brought a girl home before." She craned her neck to look further down the street. She still couldn't see them yet. Did that mean they weren't coming? "That must mean something, don't you think, that he's bringing her here? That must mean—"

"It means he likes the girl and he wants us to meet her," Oscar finished for her, stepping into the room. "Simple as that."

"What if she's freaked out by the tattoos?" Jane looked worriedly to her husband and then down at her sleeved arms, her bare legs that could be seen beneath her dress. "Should I get a sweater or something, cover up? I can change—"

"Jane." He put his hands on her shoulders, staring her dead in the eye to calm her down. "You're not on trial here, okay? That girl is here to impress _you_ , not the other way around. Take it easy."

"But…" Jane bit her lip. "If Ant likes her, I want her to like me."

Oscar smiled, and pulled her into a hug. "She'll like you, baby. Don't worry. And I'm sure Ant's told her about your tattoos, so nothing to worry about there."

"They're different in person, though," Jane maintained, though she held tight onto his back, taking strength from his comfort. She closed her eyes, and pressed her forehead against his shoulder. "He's getting so old," she whispered. "He's seventeen already. He's got a _girlfriend_."

"He's going to be a legal adult next year." Oscar laughed without really feeling it. "God," he muttered, holding his wife tight. "That's insane to think about."

When they heard a key in the door, they broke apart, both looking to the front of the apartment. Oscar took her hand, and led the way to the front room, where their eldest son Anthony was opening the door for Katie Newwell, the girl he'd been dating for about three months.

The girl did an admirable job, in Oscar's estimation. She lost herself in Jane's tattoos for only about three seconds, and then immediately she caught herself, smiled, and stepped forward, holding her hand out to introduce herself. As Jane shook it, and they started chatting, Oscar sidled over to his oldest.

"Good job, kid," he said quietly.

Anthony spared a quick nod as he undid his shoes. "Mom's been talking about this dinner for weeks," he murmured. "I knew she'd never forget it if Katie wasn't nice to her." He lowered his voice even further. "I've been showing her pictures every day, trying to get her desensitized."

Oscar squeezed his shoulder, silent with his thanks. "Your mom appreciates it. And so do I."

Anthony straightened up, nodding. "No problem. I want this to go well as much as you two do." He glanced around the apartment, and noticed there didn't seem to be anyone else there. Besides the sound of his mother and his girlfriend talking, it was actually rather quiet. It was _really_ quiet. For a brief moment, he started to smile, his entire body flooding with relief that the twins were out of the house—

But then Jane called out, "Kids! Dinner in five minutes!" and his entire world shrunk.

He turned to his father with horror. "Dad, _please_. Not the twins. Anyone but the twins. I'll give them money to go to McDonald's, I'll take out the recycling and the trash for the next six months, I'll do anything you want, so long as—"

Oscar waved a hand. "Don't bother. Your mom wants this to be a nice family dinner. And so do I, as a matter of fact. The twins will stay."

"But it _won't_ be a nice family dinner if they're here!" Anthony hissed. "They ruin _everything_ , Dad, you know that! They're—"

"Ant," Oscar cut in, "you're seventeen years old. They're twelve. I think you can grow up a bit and handle them for one meal."

"Dad, please, I'm begging you—"

"No," he replied flatly. He tipped his chin toward the dining room, where his girlfriend was loitering aimlessly, not sure where to go or what to do now that she'd stopped talking to Jane. "Now, come on, don't be rude. Introduce me."

Knowing he had no choice, Anthony made his way to the dining room, with his father following after him. He made introductions between the two, and listened half-heartedly as they made conversation about the few topics they had in common: anything to do high school academia, the college admissions process, and Anthony. If the boy in question had been listening, and not wandering around the perimeter of the room, trying to spot the twins before they spotted him, he might've noticed that his father and girlfriend got along rather well, and talked easily, even laughed. He might've been happy at this development, and relieved that Katie seemed to do well with both his parents thus far. But he was too on edge, just waiting until the moment—

"So, Antie, is this the chick you've been pretending is your girlfriend for the last three months?"

Anthony closed his eyes at the sound of one of his little brother's voices behind him, doing his best to stay completely calm. He was on the opposite side of the room from his father and Katie; they couldn't hear the twins' whispers yet, but if he made a scene, they'd surely notice. He knew the only thing worse than the twins being around Katie was him making a scene with the twins in front of Katie. If he acted like an adult and quieted them over here—

"She's way too pretty for you," the other twin, Jacob, piped up, popping up at his right side as if out of nowhere, making Anthony jump. He hated how silently they could move if they put their minds to it. Sometimes he just hated them, period. "Did she only come to dinner because you said you'd do her math homework for the rest of the year?"

"Or did you bribe her with cash instead?" Matthew asked from the left side. "What's her rate? Maybe she can be my date for the spring dance. She'd look better with me than you."

"Please," Jacob rolled his eyes, "Ant doesn't have enough money to convince her to spend five seconds with him, let alone a whole dinner. I bet she lost a bet and that's why she had to come. She probably has a real boyfriend she'll go and see after this."

"Ooh, yeah. A _real_ boyfriend. Like captain-of-the-football-team real."

"Actually-handsome real," Jacob traded back.

"Knows-how-to-talk-to-girls real."

"Is-definitely-not-still-a-virgin real."

Matthew snickered, "Yeah, and probably-has-a-bigger-d—"

" _Shut the hell up_!" Anthony shouted, whirling on them.

It was like a magic trick: the second he turned, the two little demons who had been spitting vitriol in his ears were gone. In their place were tiny, big-eyed, fake-scared little cherubs. He hated them; he _hated_ when they did this.

"You stupid little—"

"Hey!" Their father's voice cut through. "What's going on over there?"

"Anthony yelled at us!" Jacob complained— _whined_ , Anthony thought—before he could think to say anything in his own defense.

"He swore, too," Matthew piped up. "Did you hear him swear? Dad, he _swore_."

"Dad, come on, they were—"

"Did we not just talk about this? They are _twelve_ , Anthony. Be an adult. Apologize."

His father's tone left no room for argument, no room for anything except exactly what he expected.

"Sorry," Anthony muttered, though he didn't mean it. Before his father or the twins could say anything else, he made his way back across the room towards Katie, and busied them both with heading into the kitchen, where his mother was finishing getting dinner ready.

"Have you seen your sister?" she asked once they stepped inside, and took a seat at the little half-counter beside the sink that served as a bench. When Anthony replied that he had not, his mother leaned out the kitchen door and raised her voice as she yelled down the hall, "Julia Marie! Dinner or no?"

It sounded like Julia yelled something back in response, but her voice was so muffled that Anthony could hardly hear. It didn't matter much, though, for he had turned back to Katie, and was watching her watch his mother. He didn't say anything for a moment, just sat and watched her eyes fill with questions and her forehead crease again and again in confusion. He could see her trying to do the math—trying to figure out just how many tattoos there were, and where they stopped, and how long it had taken to get them all inked…

Katie jumped when she turned back and Anthony was staring at her.

"I'm sorry," she whispered under her breath, reflexively looking at her knees. "I don't mean to be rude."

He touched her back, rubbing her far shoulder gently, "It's okay," he whispered. "We can talk later. I know it's a lot."

"It's not," she argued softly, shaking her head, and Anthony hugged her for a moment, just barely holding off on kissing her. Katie was the kindest person he knew, and even if the twins hung around to ruin things even more tonight, he was happy she was here, with him, to meet his parents.

Or at least, he had been proud, until he looked back up and realized his mother had been taking pictures of them for the last minute while they hadn't been looking.

He raised his hand to guard his eyes against the flash she'd just turned on. "Ma, come on! Not necessary."

"But you two are just so cute," she excused, grinning as she put her phone back on the counter. "Couldn't miss the opportunity."

"Definitely could've missed it," Anthony muttered, but he spoke so low that only Katie heard it, and she stifled her laugh quickly.

In another minute, dinner was officially ready, and the kitchen became a mass of moving bodies carrying plates and silverware and glasses and trays of food to the dining room. To Anthony's relief, dinner itself actually went quite smoothly. The twins were more absorbed with toying with their food, and muttering their rude comments to one another than sharing with the table, and he appreciated it. He didn't care if they caused trouble—so long as they kept Katie out of it. Mostly his parents carried the conversation, with him and Katie providing answers and anecdotes here and there. Every once in a while, little Julia would burst into conversation, always to ask Katie something pointed: where her dress was from, where her heels were from, what her favorite color was, if she painted her nails regularly or if someone did them for her, and what the name of her lipstick was. Katie took all the questions in stride, and actually paused to think at some of them. The youngest watched her with rapture, as if she were a supermodel and a superhero all rolled into one. She hung on her every word as if Katie were passing down the gospel of how to be a proper girl.

When Julia left briefly to go to the bathroom between dinner and dessert, Jane apologized for her with a half-embarrassed smile: "I've never really been the girliest girl, and it's hard for her, being the youngest with all these boys around. She comes on a little strong with other women, I'm sorry. if she's bothering you, I can tell her to lay off."

But Katie shook her head, saying it was fine. She had sisters; she knew the drill. When Julia came back from the bathroom, Katie even offered to paint her nails for her after dessert.

"Well—" She glanced to the two adults at either head of the table. "—if that's all right with you, Mr. and Mrs. Brenton?"

Oscar grinned at the innocent assumption, catching his wife's eye. It was his favorite misconception in the world, and he never got tired of hearing it. "I really like this girl, Ant," he said. He turned back to Katie. "And you know what? You're more than welcome to paint Julie's nails, Katie." He lowered his voice to a stage whisper, "Just don't believe her when she says she needs a pedicure, too. You don't have to stay trapped here with us all night."

"No, I need both!" Julia corrected at once. "You can't have one without the other!"

Katie smiled, promising both, and then glanced around the table. "Okay… Could I ask something about that nickname—Ant?" She glanced between her boyfriend and his parents. "Where did it come from? Because I keep hearing you guys call him that, but no one at school ever does…"

"Oh…" A smile widened across Oscar's face at he met his son's eye. "She doesn't know about that yet, does she?"

Anthony closed his eyes. Very calmly, he began, "Dad, for the love of God, this night is almost over. _Please_ do not—"

Jane pushed her chair back. "I'll get the photo albums."

"Ma, come on!" he protested, yelling as she went into the other room. "I'm begging you—as your firstborn, please don't do this to me! Katie doesn't need to see—"

"Oh, no, I want to see," his girlfriend cut in quickly. She glanced between his parents expectantly, and then faltered. "Wait, what exactly is it I'm going to see?"

"It's nothing," Anthony tried to say.

"Nothing but the weirdest pictures in the world!" Jacob shouted over him, slamming his hands so hard on the table the silverware rattled.

"Jake," Oscar frowned. "Tone it down, kid."

"Why?" the boy shot back. He pointed across at his older brother. "He looked like a freak!"

" _Jacob_."

"Be nice, twin number two," Jane called, coming back into the room with a couple photo albums in her arms. "Or I'll break out your baby pictures, too. Talk about a freak—it took you a long time to grow into that big head of yours."

"Well, at least I was mostly normal-sized to begin with," Jacob muttered, but hardly anyone except his other twin heard him, because now his parents were crowded around Anthony and his girlfriend, and given a chance to be close to Katie, Julia squeezed in between them, though she didn't care much for pictures.

"Oh, wow… He was so small…" Katie stared at the pages of pictures, wide-eyed, as Jane flipped through them and explained the different stages of post-premature birth care, and the different people in each shot. Most of the pictures were of her and her husband, and their new baby. But in every few pictures, a new face showed up—Aunt Tasha or Uncle Kurt or Aunt P, among others—and Jane briefly explained that they were family friends.

"They stayed with us for weeks," she explained softly, turning from one picture to another. "The whole time Ant and I were in the hospital, at least one or two of them were with us for a few hours every single day. And they all had full-time jobs; it wasn't an easy feat. But they were all so kind, so helpful."

"One of them even footed our medical bills for the first six months," Oscar added.

Anthony looked up. He hadn't heard this before. "Wait, seriously?" he demanded, looking between his parents. "Who? Who are you talking about?"

His mother shook her head, her eyes on the albums. "Not important," she told her son, busying herself with indicating another picture to Katie, and explaining how the nickname "Ant" came into being.

Hopeful for an explanation, Anthony turned to his father, who merely shrugged, and muttered in his ear, "Who do you think, Ant? Which of our friends can throw around tens of thousands of dollars like it's nothing?"

"Oh, and this…" Jane smiled as she turned a page. "This is a sight that'll never leave my memory. Saw it every single day, for weeks."

She brushed her fingers over two pictures on the right side of the album, leaning close as if to take in every detail. Katie leaned in with her, and smiled at the way the older woman's tattooed fingers lingered on the almost decades-old picture of her husband. The image was taken from far away—perhaps in the doorway of the nursery—for the figure of him was a little small, but still sharply defined. He was sitting in a hospital-issue armchair in the back of a nursery, shirtless, and cradling what looked like a very, very tiny Anthony to his chest.

"Any time, day or night, that I woke up and he wasn't around, that would be the first place I'd look: the back of the NICU. Ninety-nine out of a hundred times, that's where I'd find him, holding our baby to get him to sleep, or maybe even asleep himself sometimes."

Jane flipped through a few more pictures, and in all the ones in the NICU, Katie noticed her husband was routinely shirtless, and she couldn't help but ask. She glanced behind her at Anthony's father. "Um… Sorry, I just—I don't really know how all this works, with early babies and everything, but—why aren't you wearing a shirt when you hold him?"

Oscar smiled briefly. "Kangaroo care," he answered softly. At the blank look on her face, he added, "It's a way of bonding with pre-term infants. Since they have less time to mature in the womb, preemies are born with all kinds of deficiencies. Ant had trouble with his lungs. He needed a lot of help breathing in the early days; he had to be on a ventilator and in an incubator most of the time. With all that mess—" He gestured at one of the photos, taken of Anthony in said incubator, where he was covered all over with wires and cuffs and tubes. "—I'm sure you can see how it's kind of hard to see him as a real baby. Or to feel comfortable even holding him." Without meaning to, his voice fell to a whisper, "Every time I touched him I thought I was going to hurt him. I was terrified I was going to make him sick, or agitate some latent condition, or jinx everything just because I wanted so badly for him to survive…"

He shook his head, and the whole room was quiet, even the twins, as he drew in a shuddering breath.

"But," he cleared his throat quickly, forcing a smile, "you were asking about why I was shirtless. Kangaroo care is about body heat, and parent-child bonding. As you can see, Ant was really small. It was hard for him to stay warm, and hard for him to breathe regularly. He didn't sleep very well, either. But it helped him, like it helps a lot of babies, to have a familiar body to cuddle up with, one whose smell he recognized, whose heat he could draw from, whose heart he could feel and hear and use to steady himself. Being shirtless just expedited the process, brought us closer—kangaroo care is all about skin-to-skin contact, as often and for as long as possible.

"Jane would feed him every day, so she always had her allotted time with him. She was able to bond with him as mothers are always able to bond with their kids, better and more deeply than anyone else. But I didn't really have anything to do for him; I didn't _know_ what to do. Like I said, I was scared to hold him in the NICU. I was scared to hold him all the time. But the nurses talked to us about kangaroo care, and I started doing that. When Jane was busy, or tired, or sleeping, I'd hold him. Sometimes for just an hour, sometimes all night or all day."

"You used to sing to him while you did it," Jane said quietly, remembering. "And hum sometimes, too. If you were in the room, I used to listen to you until I fell asleep. Or I'd find you in the nursery and sit outside, listening from the other side of the doorway."

Her husband frowned, glancing over at her. "You were outside? Why didn't you come in?"

She shrugged. "I didn't want to interrupt." She glanced away, her eyes finding the pictures again. "Maybe I was scared of jinxing things, too," she whispered, reaching a hand out to turn another page.

She was in the middle of explaining what it had been like to bring Anthony home— _I'd never been so happy and so terrified to leave a hospital before in my life_ —when suddenly her husband backed away, removing himself from the group with a terse, "I'm sorry, please excuse me for a second."

Everyone turned to watch him go as he strode quickly to another room, and Anthony held fast onto Julia, pulling her up into his lap, when she called after her father and tried to follow him. They had all caught sight of his red eyes and it had changed something in the atmosphere of the room. They weren't used to seeing him upset. Anthony glanced up at his mother, who put up a smile as all attention turned to her. She tapped the photo albums with a hand, moving them closer to Katie.

"Feel free to look at these as long as you like," she said. "But please excuse me for a second as well." When the smile on her face faltered, Jane forced it up again, but the strain was obvious now. Her eyes were getting red at the edges, too. Reflexively, Anthony held Julia tighter, in case she made a real run for it this time. The last thing his parents needed was her running after them when they wanted to be alone.

Before she left, Jane stepped over to Anthony's chair and leaned down to kiss him quickly on the temple, and squeeze his shoulders tightly. "Love you, sweetheart," she whispered, and even though her voice was barely audible, they could all still hear it crack. "So much, Anthony. So much." Without another word, she ducked out of the room after her husband and disappeared back into the apartment.

"Mama?"

One of the twins started after her, but Anthony reached out and grabbed onto his arm at once. It was Matthew, and he wasn't pretending to be a little boy anymore, he truly was one again. His eyes were wide and fearful when they turned to his older brother.

"What's going on with them?" he whispered.

"Nothing," Anthony answered at once. "Just leave Mom and Dad alone." He caught Jacob's eye. "Go to your room and be quiet."

For one of the very few times in their lives, the twins listened to him without hesitation or pushback. Matthew grabbed Jacob's arm and they headed down the opposite hall to their own room.

Katie watched them go, chewing nervously on her lower lip. "I didn't mean to upset anyone," she whispered, her own eyes wide and scared as she turned back to Anthony. "I'm so sorry. Please, tell your parents I'm—"

He shook his head. "It's okay. It's not your fault. They just get like this sometimes." He looked down at Julia, still sitting on his knees, and smiled quickly. "Hey, Julie-girl, you still wanna get your nails painted? You get to pick between me and Katie for manicurists, so choose wisely."


	7. Chapter 7

When Jane stepped into their bedroom, her husband was sitting on the edge of the bed, hunched over, his face buried in his hands. The second he looked up and saw her, he immediately straightened up, wiping his face clear, trying to act as if nothing had happened.

"Hey," she whispered softly, walking over to him. "It's okay. It's only me."

He nodded, but he didn't stop wiping his face, or trying to hide himself from her. She grabbed at one of his hands to stop him, and then the other. It had been almost twenty years they'd been married, and still, he felt it necessary to hide his grief and fear from her. Still, he felt it necessary to be the strong, stoic person in the room. They had been over this a thousand times before, but as she held his hands tightly and begged with him to look at her, she wondered if he was ever going to stop trying to protect her. _I don't need this,_ she wanted to tell him. But part of her wondered if it was even about her at all. Maybe it was easier for him to protect her than to protect himself.

"Talk to me," she whispered, kneeling in front of him. When he shook his head, refusing, she clutched his hands tighter and pressed, "Come on, talk to me. Oscar. _Oscar_."

"It's nothing," he whispered, shaking his head once more. "I just… I got emotional, I had to leave. I'm sorry."

"You don't need to apologize," she whispered. "C'mon, it's me. It's only me. You know you don't need to apologize."

"This night was supposed to be fun," he muttered, lifting one of their joined hands to wipe at his eyes. "It was supposed to be normal."

She laughed a little, and lifted his other hand to kiss his wedding ring. "Oh, please. You know nothing's ever normal with us."

He cracked a smile at that, and she smiled back, hopeful. She tugged on his hands until he moved off the bed, and came to join her on the floor. He sat with his back against the bedframe, and she moved into him, tucking her head into his chest. She let go of his hands, finally, and brought one up to cup the far side of his neck.

"Tell me what you're thinking of," she whispered. She pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Tell me what scared you."

"Nothing," he whispered back. And then, knowing she was trying her hardest, and that he should too, he muttered, "Everything."

"Everything scared me," he continued, turning to look at her, finding her red, watery eyes mirroring his. "Just looking at those pictures scared me. Seeing Ant as almost an adult scared me. Talking with Katie about his birth…" He sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes filling once more. "You do realize we'll have to have a conversation like that with his wife one day, right? When he finds someone, when they're serious, we'll have to do this all over again, we'll have to hold it together…"

"We don't need to worry about that now," Jane soothed. "He isn't marrying anyone."

"He's still getting old," Oscar whispered back. "Look at him! He's seventeen years old already, and—and still, it's just like yesterday he was born and put in that incubator. I look at him now, and…" He trailed off, his chin shaking. He tried a couple more times to speak, but nothing came out.

"I get scared too," she whispered, pulling him into a hug. "I get so scared, thinking back to that time. Looking back at all we've been through… All that we have now…"

His hands tightened around her. He knew immediately what she was getting at—deep down, she only ever had one fear. "It isn't going to be taken away." He pulled back, his conviction fierce enough to be heard through the tears in his voice. "Nothing we have, no part of our family, is ever going to be taken away from you."

She smiled sadly, tracing a few fingertips along the hard line of his jaw. "Kind of you to say," she whispered.

"It's _true_."

"You can't predict the future."

"Maybe not, but I can predict that I'll do whatever it takes to keep the present," he replied. His hands curled around her shoulders, holding her hard in place, as he bent his forehead to hers. "I'll do whatever it takes to keep you, and all our babies."

"Babies." Jane smiled at that. "You can't say that anymore," she whispered, running her hands through his hair, and bending forward to kiss him briefly. "You can't call them babies."

"Julie M's only ten. That's still a baby, right?"

"Maybe," Jane allowed with a soft chuckle. "But those twin troublemakers of ours are definitely not babies."

Oscar laughed, leaning back against he bed. "Yeah, I guess not," he replied.

"And Ant…" Jane curled into his side, resting her head against her husband's shoulder. "Can you believe he's going to be gone next year?"

Oscar shook his head. "I don't want to think about it," he muttered. He closed his eyes, the old fear consuming him once again. "I don't want to think about it," he whispered again, his voice breaking as he ducked his head against his wife. When he started crying again, she soothed him softly, combing his hair with one hand while she hugged him with the other.

"It's okay," she whispered again and again. "It's all right, honey. He's fine. He's safe. He's a big kid now. He's perfectly healthy."

"I close my eyes and he's still in the NICU," Oscar choked out. "He's still only half-alive. He's still… I touch him, and he's gone, Jane. I touch him, and—and I lose another baby, just like that."

"You're not losing any babies." She pressed a kiss to his ear, his temple. "I swear to you. You're never going to lose another baby."

"Jane, _don't_ —"

"You're not going to. You're not going to lose anyone. Not me, not Ant, not the twins, and not Julia. No one. You'll be stuck with all of us forever, got it? _Hear me_?"

Weakly, he nodded. "I hear you."

She reached down, lifting his head from her shoulder. Before he could do so himself, she carefully wiped the spent tears from beneath his eyes. When his face was clear, and his breathing as close to even as it was going to get, she asked quietly, "More importantly, Oscar, do you _believe_ me?"

"Would you believe me if I said something like that?" he asked back. The challenge was soft, understandable, and she took the point for what it was.

She drew in a breath, closed her eyes, and thought. For all the times he had been honest with her, long before they had ever been married, she thought. And for all the times he had been honest with her after their marriage, she thought. He deserved the truth, and she wanted to be certain of it when she gave it to him.

She reached for his hand, and curled his fingers around hers until his ring faced upward, and shone in the light when she turned it this way and that. Few things in the world brought her more comfort than the sight of that ring on his finger, and all it meant.

"I believe that none of us will let go of each other," she whispered. "I believe that you and I will always love each other, and always love the kids. Whether they love use back, well—" She laughed a little, and he did, too. She looked up. She could see tears in his eyes again, and she felt them grow in hers as well. "I'm always gonna be a little scared," she whispered. "And I know you're always gonna be a little scared. And I think that's just how it's going to be. I think we just have to live with that."

"You think we can?"

She tilted her head to the side. "Isn't that what we've been doing all these years?" She smiled, and tapped the side of his head. "Where've you been, huh?"

He shook his head, leaning against her. "I don't know," he whispered, resting his cheek against her shoulder. He closed his eyes, and breathed her in: her familiar shampoo, her soap, the smallest bit of perfume. He could remember a time when the smell of her, the touch of her, the reality of her had been so far away from his own life that she'd hardly seemed real. But here she was, still, with him again somehow.

"Maybe I've been in an alternate universe or something," he murmured. "Living a double life. Maybe I have another life in my dreams."

She breathed a laugh. "Is that so? And what's your dream life like, huh?"

"Well…" He drew in a breath, turning his head to press a kiss to her collarbone. "Let's see. In my dreams, I married you, we had a ton of kids, and we lived happily ever after."

"You're not very imaginative."

"Never claimed to be."

"Oscar?"

"Yeah?"

"I'll take this life, worries or no. I wouldn't trade it for anything. I wouldn't ask for a single thing more. I want you to know that."

He did not hesitate, did not pause, before answering. He did not even think of their life before all this, or of any other life he had ever imagined for them. He simply told the truth.

"I wouldn't ask for a single thing more, either."

* * *

 _ **A/N** : I applaud you if you got to the end. Thanks so much for reading, and please feel free to leave your thoughts on any of the chapters below. :) To C— **HAPPY BIRTHDAY**!_


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